Chapter Twelve #2
Miss Aldridge was everything a young lady was supposed to be, blonde and ethereal, with cornflower-blue eyes and a rosebud mouth that seemed perpetually poised on the verge of a smile.
She was the daughter of an earl, possessed of a substantial dowry and an unimpeachable reputation.
She had been declared an Incomparable before her first season was a month old, and she had suitors queuing three deep at every ball.
Now she gazed up at Martin with open admiration, her lovely face alight with interest. Lady Portsmith's expression soured visibly as the younger woman commanded Martin's attention.
"The competition heats up," Helena murmured. "Poor Lady Portsmith. Outflanked by a debutante."
Martin was polite to Miss Aldridge, of course he was; he was polite to everyone, but Vanessa noticed something that made her heart lift despite herself.
His smile didn't change. His posture didn't shift.
He spoke to the beautiful Miss Aldridge with exactly the same pleasant detachment he had shown Lady Portsmith.
Neither of them moved him. Neither of them mattered.
"He's not interested in either of them," Helena said.
"How can you tell?"
"Because he hasn't looked at them once the way he's been looking at you for the past ten minutes."
Vanessa startled. "What?"
"Over Lady Portsmith's shoulder. While pretending to listen to Miss Aldridge. He keeps glancing in this direction." Helena's smile was smug. "He's been tracking you since you entered the room."
Vanessa looked toward Martin and found him observing her.
Their eyes met across the crowded ballroom. Lady Portsmith was still talking, still touching his arm, and he was not listening to a word she said. His gaze was fixed on Vanessa with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
She should look away. A lady did not stare at a gentleman across a ballroom, no matter how much she might wish to.
She did not look away.
Neither did he.
The moment stretched between them, a silent communication that felt more intimate than any words. Then someone jostled Vanessa's elbow, and she was forced to turn, and when she looked back, Martin had returned his attention to his companions.
But his expression had changed. The pleasant mask had slipped, just slightly, and beneath it she glimpsed something raw…something intense.
Something that matched the feeling burning in her own chest.
A whisper of unease curled through her. Martin had been different lately…at the park, at dinner, and now here. Watching her with an intensity that was new, or perhaps newly revealed. As though something had changed. As though he knew something he hadn't known before.
The letters. The thought surfaced before she could stop it. What if he received the letters?
She pushed it away. She had been torturing herself with that fear for weeks, and it had produced nothing but sleepless nights and anxious days. Martin's behaviour could be explained a dozen other ways. She was seeing patterns that didn't exist.
Wasn't she?
"Well," Helena said. "That was illuminating."
"I don't know what you mean."
"Of course you don't." Helena patted her arm. "Come. Let's get some champagne before Lord Deane finds you and monopolises your entire evening."
***
Lord Deane found her within the quarter hour.
He approached with his customary eager expression, his pleasant face brightened by the sight of her. He was handsomely dressed in dark evening clothes, his cravat tied with mathematical precision, his hair carefully pomaded. Everything about him was correct, appropriate, exactly as it should be.
Everything about him left Vanessa utterly unmoved.
"Lady Vanessa!" He bowed over her hand with evident pleasure. "You look radiant this evening. The gold suits you tremendously."
"Thank you, Lord Deane. You're very kind."
"Not kind…merely honest." He straightened, still holding her hand. "I had hoped, that is, I wondered if you might do me the honour of dancing the first two sets with me?"
She should refuse. She should plead a full dance card, a lingering weakness in her ankle, a prior engagement. She should do something…anything to create distance between them before the situation became even more complicated than it already was.
"Of course," she heard herself say. "I would be delighted."
His smile widened. "Wonderful. Truly wonderful."
The orchestra struck up the opening notes of a country dance, and Lord Deane led her onto the floor.
He was a competent partner his steps were accurate, his timing precise, but there was no spark in his touch, no thrill in his proximity.
Dancing with him was like dancing with a piece of well-crafted furniture: functional, serviceable, entirely without excitement.
"I must tell you something," he said as the figures of the dance brought them together. "I hope you will not think me presumptuous."
"What is it?"
"I called on your father this afternoon."
Vanessa missed a step. Lord Deane caught her elbow, steadying her with a concerned frown.
"Are you well? Is your ankle troubling you?"
"No, I…" She forced herself to continue the dance, though her mind was reeling. "I am well. You simply surprised me."
"I apologise. I did not mean to spring it upon you in such a fashion." His expression was earnest, hopeful. "I simply wanted you to know that my intentions are sincere. I hold you in the highest regard, Lady Vanessa. The very highest."
The dance separated them before she could respond. Vanessa moved through the figures mechanically, her thoughts in chaos.
He had spoken to her father. That could mean only one thing: he intended to propose. Formally. Properly. With all the weight of social expectation behind him.
And her father would accept. Of course he would. Lord Deane was everything a parent could want for their daughter, wealthy, titled and respectable. He would make a perfectly adequate husband. He would provide a comfortable life, a secure future, children who would want for nothing.
It would be a good match. Everyone would say so.
So why did the prospect fill her with such suffocating dread?
The dance brought them together again. Lord Deane was watching her with barely concealed anxiety, clearly awaiting some response to his declaration.
"I appreciate your candour," Vanessa said. It was not an acceptance, but neither was it a refusal. It was nothing…a placeholder, a delay.
Lord Deane seemed to find it encouraging. "I do not expect an answer tonight. I simply wanted you to know where things stand. So that you might... consider."
"I will consider."
The dance ended. He bowed; she curtsied. And then, mercifully, he released her to seek refreshment, and she was free.
Helena materialised at her side. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"He spoke to my father."
"Deane?" Helena's eyes widened. "Oh no."
"Oh yes."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. I said I would consider." Vanessa pressed a hand to her stomach, which was churning unpleasantly. "Helena, what am I going to do?"
"That depends entirely on what you want." Helena steered her toward a relatively quiet corner, away from the press of dancers. "Do you wish to enter into matrimony with Lord Deane?"
"No."
The word came out more forcefully than she had intended. Helena's eyebrows rose.
"Well. That's definitive."
"I don't…I can't…." Vanessa struggled to articulate the tangle of feelings in her chest. "He's perfectly nice. He would make a perfectly adequate husband. But I don't love him, Helena. I don't even particularly like him. And the thought of spending the rest of my life with him…."
"Makes you want to scream and run in the opposite direction?"
"Yes. Exactly."
"Then don't enter into matrimony with him."
"It's not that simple."
"Isn't it?" Helena's gaze was shrewd. "Or is the complication standing across the room, pretending not to watch us?"
Vanessa glanced toward Martin. He was engaged in conversation with Lord Castleton and several other gentlemen, but even as she watched, his eyes flicked in her direction. Their gazes met for a fraction of a second before he looked away.
"I don't know what you mean," Vanessa said.
"Of course you don't." Helena sighed. "Vanessa, I have known you since we were children. I have watched you pine for Montehood for years…yes, pine, don't bother denying it. And I have watched him watch you with an expression that suggests he is not nearly as indifferent as he pretends."
"He doesn't…."
"He does. Everyone can see it except apparently the two of you." Helena gripped her hand. "If you want him, fight for him. Don't let Lord Deane's adequate niceness trap you in a life you don't want."
"And if Martin doesn't want me back?"
"Then at least you'll know. At least you won't spend the next forty years wondering what might have been."
It was the same thing Martin had said, Vanessa realised. In the park, on the bench, when they had spoken of secrets and regrets.
If you remain silent, you will never know what might have been. That is a heavier burden than rejection.
She had given him that advice. Perhaps it was time to take it herself.